W'en hit's mos' nigh time fu' wakin' on de dawn o' jedge ment day, Seems lak I kin hyeah ol' Gab'iel lay his trumpet down an' say, "Who dat walkin' 'roun' so easy, down on earf ermong de dead?" "T will be Lizy up a-tu'nin' of de chillun in de bed. 1 A COQUETTE CONQUERED 1 Yes, my ha't's ez ha'd ez stone— Phiny loves you true an' deah? Got a present! What you got? Whut's dat un'neaf yo' coat? Gin it to me; whut you say? 1 From Lyrics of Lowly Life. Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead & Company. Tell me, is you talkin' true, Come back, Sam; now whah's you gwine? DISCOVERED 1 Seen you down at chu'ch las' night, What I mean? Oh, dat's all right, You was sma't ez sma't could be, Guess you thought you's awful keen; Say now, honey, wa'd he say?- I'm gwine tell his othah gal, Know huh, too; huh name is Sal. 1 From Lyrics of Lowly Life. Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead & Company. Leonora Speyer was born in Washington, D. C., in 1872. On her mother's side, she is of New England stock; her father was Count Ferdinand von Stosch, a Prussian nobleman who fought for the Union in the Civil War, became an American citizen, lived and died here. As a girl, Leonora von Stosch was a professional violinist, playing with Nikisch, Anton Seidl and other famous conductors. Later, she married Sir Edgar Speyer who, before the World War, did much to bring modern European music to England. Since 1915, Mrs. Speyer has lived in New York City. Although her husband had always written playlets for the entertainment of the family and had published a German translation of Keats' poems, Leonora Speyer had never written until 1915. For five years after that date, her verse appeared in various magazines and attracted no little attention. Her first volume, A Canopic Jar, appeared in 1921. Much of it was tentative and fumbling, much of it oversweet. But there was something clear and definite in such sonnets as "The Ladder" and even some of the free verse had a distinct personal turn. This pleasant impression is strengthened by Mrs. Speyer's subsequent work. The recent poems (from which the group here reprinted has been selected) show a firmer hand, a surer use of the material. A second volume, to contain these poems, is in preparation. WHO IS THE PIONEER? (From "Of Mountains") Who is the pioneer? He is the follower here, Perhaps the last Of all who passed. He does not fear nor scorn To tread The ventured path, the worn, Nor shall he fail To blaze his own brave trail Make of the old a newer way Of stouter clay, For others at his back. He is the pioneer who climbs, His own high heart, On bloody hands and knees He stands on these! . . . Or knowing, does not care, Save to climb on from there! Who is the pioneer? He is the follower here, Perhaps the last Of all who passed. He passes too, Limping along. . . . Ah, but his song, ITALIAN QUATRAINS New Excavations A workman with a spade in half a day Olive Tree Moonlight is always on its leaves; Pompeii They let me play at digging in that place, Scoop ash from painted walls. . . . A girl's Greek face PROTEST IN PASSING This house of flesh was never loved of me, Loth to accept such hospitality. When the house slumbered, how I woke! for then But now there comes a safer, swifter flight: I go; nor need endure these rooms again. |